Tuesday, 16 November 2004 | Italian American

I was standing half-in, half-out of the rain. A stranger joined me on the stairs and sized me up; his voice was coated with a thick Italian-American accent. "Let's see...you're not smoking a cigarette and you're out in the cold and the rain. That can't be good." I smiled. "Long story," I responded, which was kind of a cop-out but totally true. He nodded and walked away.

Moments later, after I'd been more or less rescued, the Italian American returned. I figured since he was nice enough to show concern, I'd give him an update. "Everything's okay," I quietly assured him.

"Well...if you're going to have drama," he began, but stopped short. He looked around and gestured to the play house behind us, and turned the corners of his mouth down the way that Italian Americans are supposed to do when they shrug. He continued, his accent on its best behavior. "If you're going to have drama, this is the place to do it. It's...what do they say...apropos." He carefully annunciated his syllables. Ap. Pro. Po.

It doesn't matter to me that he didn't know anything about my situation or that he gave me random and unsolicited consolation. (I wouldn't have said anything to him, had our roles been reversed.) But I think that makes me appreciate his gesture even more. (Or perhaps I just liked that he made me laugh.) I thanked him and left him on the steps, pulling on his damp cigarette.